


Stripped

by girlyjuice



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:35:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlyjuice/pseuds/girlyjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy goes undercover. At a strip club. As a stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Assignment

Amy knows they’re talking about her because every time she walks by Holt’s office, he and the deputy commissioner go oddly silent, and Peralta turns red and starts rambling about Brazilian soccer.

The third time it happens – on her second coffee run of the morning – her curiosity gets the better of her and she sticks her head in the door. “What are you gentlemen talking about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“SOCCER, just soccer again, definitely not anything secret or serious,” Jake says far too loudly.

Holt looks at him and sighs. “Santiago, we were actually about to ask you to join us. Please come in, shut the door and sit down.” Heart pounding with glee, Amy does as she’s been told, joining Peralta on the captain’s loveseat.

The deputy commissioner clears his throat. “Detective Santiago, are you familiar with an establishment called the South Pole in the Flatbush area?”

Amy wasn’t expecting a quiz on local geography. “The South Pole? No, sir, I don’t believe I am.”

“It’s a, uh, strip club,” the commissioner continues, turning slightly pink.

“Oh.”

“Yes, well. The FBI thinks there may be some illegal activity taking place there. Prostitution, cocaine deals, possibly more.”

Amy notices Jake’s watching her with a wholly concerned, almost pitying look on his face. She tries to ignore this. “And what is it you need from me, commissioner? Should Peralta and I raid the place?”

The commissioner turns to Holt, who takes over. “The FBI believes a raid would not be enough to uncover all that might be going on at the South Pole. They’d like a detective to go undercover there.” Amy’s eyes light up. “For three months.” Her eyebrows shoot upward. “As an exotic dancer.”

The silence in the room is palpable. Amy looks at Jake, almost for confirmation, but he’s staring at the floor.

“We considered sending Peralta to work as a janitor or in some other menial position, since he has undercover experience,” Holt explains, “but our informants say the club’s owner is highly selective about all job applicants except the dancers themselves. So we believe it makes more sense to send a woman. And you, Santiago, are our best, by far.”

On any other day, a compliment like this from Holt would make Amy jump for joy, but now she’s just stunned. She bites her lip and thinks it over. “Sir, there’s a flaw in this plan,” she says finally. “As honored as I am that you want me to go undercover, I don’t see how I can be a… a stripper. I’m a terrible dancer, I don’t know much about makeup or hair, I’m not even good at walking in heels, let alone dancing – “

“That won’t be a problem,” Holt interrupts. “I’ve spoken to Gina and Detective Diaz and they have agreed to help you. You’ll have a month to prepare, tie up loose ends, and get settled in before your assignment officially starts.”

“A month?” Amy falters. “Rosa and Gina?” She tries to shake the confusion out of her head and says again, “A _month_?”

“Give it some thought, Santiago,” Holt says. “We can attempt to persuade Detective Diaz to go instead, if you’d prefer. But I believe this assignment is suited to someone less – “

“ – filled with rage?” Jake supplies. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet this whole time. “Can you imagine Rosa the first time a guy makes some idiotic comment about her body while she’s dancing? She’d punch him out and get fired.” He looks straight into Amy’s eyes. “You’re our best hope, pal.”

Amy blushes. She’s not sure whether she should be flattered that she’s gotten this assignment because she _won’t_ stand up for herself if some jerk messes with her. Sometimes she wishes she were more like Rosa…

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” she says heavily. She gets up to leave Holt’s office, and then, just as she reaches the doorway, she wheels around. “No. Actually – I’ll do it. Sign me up.” There. She’s being more like Rosa already. Strong. Decisive. Brave.

The commissioner beams at her, and she thinks she sees the corner of Holt’s mouth turn up slightly, which is, for him, the equivalent of a gleaming grin. “We’ll be in touch shortly with details,” the commissioner tells her, and she smiles back at him and practically skips out of the office, feeling terrified and fearless all at the same time.

* * *

Amy stays late at the office for the third night in a row – not because she’s got extra work to do (her paperwork is always submitted on time, impeccable and neat), but because – and she hesitates to even admit this to herself – these days, she needs to be around Jake. Kind of a lot. More than regular work hours allow.

He’s a comforting presence. Calming. Even when his jokes and pranks enrage her, there’s still something almost nice about the predictability of his silliness. And, under all his goofing around, she knows he really does care about her well-being. The proof is in his actions, if not in his speech.

Tonight, the proof is that he’s stayed late with her. Again. No questions asked.

“You nervous?” he asks, bouncing a mini basketball against the side of Charles’s abandoned computer.

“Yeah,” she admits.

“Okay. Let’s work on that. Amy Santiago’s Top Three Fears About Going Undercover as a Stripper. Go.”

She smiles. “I love making lists.”

He smiles back. “I know. Top three fears. Go.”

She takes a deep breath and leans back in her chair so she won’t have to look Peralta in the eyes. “Number three: that I’ll be a terrible dancer and everyone will laugh at me.”

“Ooh, listing backwards. Very suspenseful.” Jake bounces the ball a couple times. “It’s okay if you’re bad. Gina’s going to teach you some moves, right? And all you really have to do is shake your ass and grind on a pole.” Dropping his voice to a soft mumble, he adds, “Plus, you’re hot, so no one will care if you’re bad.”

Amy chooses to ignore this, but smiles nonetheless.

“Number two: that I’ll get hurt. One of the customers could get aggressive, or the club owner could figure out I’m a cop and try to do something to me, or…”

Jake nods thoughtfully. “Okay, first, props to you that getting hurt is only your _second_ biggest fear about going undercover. That’s ballsy. Or, uh… ovaries-y.” He kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up on his desk. “If a customer gets handsy, you just use your cop training to put him in his place. Pretend you’re Rosa and he’s a perp trying to get away.” He mimes a Rosa-esque roundhouse punch, and Amy giggles. “And you don’t need to worry about the club owner. Remember, you’ll be in touch with Holt via email every day, so if you start to think you’re in danger, just let him know and he’ll send in some backup.”

Amy exhales, releasing some of the tension she’s been amassing since she agreed to take on the assignment. Jake’s little pep-talk really is helping.

“Number one: that I won’t find anything, or I’ll mess it up somehow, and Holt will be disappointed in me, and I’ll never become captain.” She squeezes her eyes shut. Even just saying the words out loud makes her nauseous.

Jake looks at her as if she’s just said _Die Hard_ is a terrible movie. “Santiago, what the hell are you talking about? You and I both know you’re going to knock this investigation out of the park, cement yourself as Holt’s favorite, and probably win a bravery medal. If that doesn’t make you captain material, then I don’t know what will.” He gets up and puts on his jacket. “Plus you’ll have sick stripper moves under your belt, which is a crucial quality for a captain. Now, do you wanna get out of here?”

Amy can’t quite bring herself to thank Jake for his helpful words of wisdom – _Jake_? Helpful? _Wisdom_? – so she just pulls her coat on and follows him out of the precinct. He waves goodbye to her in the parking lot as he gets into his car, and she smiles after him when he drives away.


	2. One Month

Amy’s always known that Rosa is scary, but she learns it all over again when the leather-clad detective corners her in the ladies’ room.

“Santiago,” Rosa booms, and Amy whips around, hands pressing into the porcelain sink behind her. “I’m supposed to help you with your assignment. We start Tuesday after work. Don’t forget.”

“O-okay,” Amy stammers, and watches Rosa march back out to the bullpen.

It’s unclear what Rosa actually intends to teach her, but whatever Rosa’s got, Amy knows she’ll need it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Gina, as it turns out, is better at teaching dance than she is at actually dancing.

She uses a lot of metaphors – “Pretend you’re a bird on fire, streaking ash through a summer sky!” “Lift your thighs like Christian Grey just told you he wants some lovin’!” – and while this imprecise approach conflicts with Amy’s natural need to plan and practice, in some ways she finds it freeing. She begins to look forward to her thrice-weekly after-work rehearsals with Gina in the evidence lockup.

The warm-ups are reminiscent of her time at the police academy: repetitive exercises, performed until her muscles ache in that pleasant, familiar way. Gina whips her into shape, yelling encouragements at her through a megaphone she stole from Holt’s cabinet: “Ten more reps, Santiago, you worthless, beautiful piece of crap!”

Then comes the actual dancing. Gina’s installed a tall floor lamp in the lockup (once again, stolen from Holt’s office, though he hasn’t protested its absence) and Amy uses it as a pole. It’s not steady enough for her to hang her full weight on, so for now she just practices gyrating, shimmying, grinding. Sometimes she imagines the lamp is a person (she tries not to specify the identity of that person, even inside her own head).

The first few minutes are always stilted as Amy worries about how she looks, whether she’s getting the moves right, whether she should even care what Gina thinks. But then, inevitably, she gets to a point where she just stops caring. Her inhibitions fly out the window and all that matters is the heat in her muscles, the slow steady gyration of her hips, the pulse of the increasingly filthy slow-jams Gina blasts from her little boombox. Sometimes Amy just closes her eyes and does whatever feels right, and that’s always the moment when Gina crows, “Get it, girl! Shake dat ass!”

As their second week of rehearsals comes to a close, Gina throws Amy a towel to wipe the sweat from her face and says, “Next week we’ll try it in heels.” Amy gulps. But she’s kind of excited. Is that weird?

 

 

* * *

 

 

The lessons with Rosa are scarier, but that’s pretty much what Amy expected.

Rosa, she explained tersely at their first lesson, put herself through college by working as a dominatrix. Although Amy knows practically nothing about Rosa, this new fact does not surprise her in the least. In fact, it explains a lot.

What _does_ surprise Amy is how much Rosa seems to like teaching. She doesn’t smile much, or verbalize her enjoyment in any way, of course, but Amy can tell from Rosa’s carefully thought-out lessons and enthusiastic whiteboard scrawls that she’s getting into it.

Today, the conference room whiteboard bears the words, “Handling Creeps.”

“If a guy puts his hands on you, you gotta tell him to back the fuck off,” Rosa says darkly, pacing. “Just say, ‘ _Hey!_ Get your fuckin’ hands off me!’” This delivery is so loud and sharp that Amy practically falls off her chair. “If you’re worried that dudes will get turned off, don’t be. Men love strong chicks. Your tips will triple. Now, you try.”

Amy gets up, closes her eyes for a moment, tries to envision herself as Rosa, or at least, wearing a badass leather jacket. Then she opens her eyes and yells, “HEY! Get your fuckin’ hands off me, you twerp!”

Rosa smirks. “Good. Nice.”

Amy’s often thought she should take anger management classes, because of the way rage bubbles up inside her when Jake pranks her or when the Vulture steals one of her cases – but, as it turns out, evening lessons with Rosa fulfill the same purpose and are a lot more fun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Now – is your inner stripper more of a blonde, or a brunette?”

A few weeks ago, this is the kind of question that would’ve made Amy roll her eyes or tell Gina to stop being so inappropriate. But now, she knows better. She gives the question serious consideration, chewing on her pen. “Blonde, I think.”

Gina nods sagely and makes a note in her purple holographic notebook. “I think so too. Let’s get you some bleach, 40-volume developer, toner…”

“Wait,” Amy says, touching her long brown hair tenderly. “Can’t I just wear a wig?”

“You know, normally I’d say, ‘No, you trashy hobag, only trashy hobags wear wigs,’ but since you’re supposed to be a stripper, perhaps a wig is à propos.”

The next day at lunch, Gina slips Amy a brown paper bag which contains a platinum blonde, shoulder-length wig. Inside, on a post-it note in loopy script: “This is gonna look glorious, you hobag.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Amy wasn’t exactly popular in high school, so she missed out on a lot of important bonding rituals with other girls – including the clichéd doing-makeup-together-in-the-bathroom-mirror routine.

She makes up for lost time now with Rosa, who has started slipping makeup lessons into her otherwise rage-filled curriculum.

“Put the eyeliner on and then smudge the hell out of it with your finger,” Rosa says to Amy’s reflection, and demonstrates. “Make it messy. Guys like that. Makes you look like you just got fucked.”

Amy no longer questions Rosa’s wisdom on matters such as this. She just takes her own eyeliner pencil and sets to work.

“Try some red lipstick,” Rosa continues, handing Amy an unopened tube of the stuff. “You could use gloss but then your hair might stick to it while you’re dancing.”

Amy nods, unravels the plastic seal on the lipstick tube and runs the red bullet over her mouth.

“You look good,” Rosa says when Amy’s whole face is done. They smile at each other in the mirror.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lessons with Jake weren’t part of the plan Holt assigned for Amy’s month of prep, but he volunteered himself nonetheless, and Amy’s glad, though she’d never say so out loud.

On alternate evenings, when she’s not practicing yelling and face-painting with Rosa or dancing and strutting with Gina, she stays late and beats up Jake.

Well, sort of. She can’t bring herself to really hurt him. But their whole game is that he tries to put his hands on her and she stops him. Sometimes aggressively. Hey, the job will call for it.

In classic Jake fashion, he makes up a name and identity for his drunk strip club patron character. He’s Joe Morris, 45-year-old banker, bored at home, bored at work, looking for a little excitement through excessive booze and pretty women. And, also in classic Jake fashion, he talks a lot.

“Hey, nice tits!” Jake booms, reaching for Amy’s body. “You’re, what, a double D? Triple D? Quadruple?” She intercepts his touch, twists one wrist up behind his back until his arms go slack and he’s whining, “Ow ow ow. Uncle.”

They try it again. “Gimme a piece of that ass!” Jake slurs faux-drunkenly, and puts his hand there. “Can I get some fries with that shake?” Amy crushes his fingers between hers, wheels around and kicks him in the shin. He relents. “Ow, that hurt,” he says, but he always says this, after every single repetition of their game, and continues anyway. Amy knows he’d tell her if he actually wanted her to stop.

“Am I getting better?” she says breathlessly as they sit down for a rest.

Jake nods. He’s pressing an icepack to his wrist, which is evidence enough of her improvement.

During these little classes, there are times when Jake gets his hands on her and she lets him linger a bit. Definitely longer than she’d put up with any gross drunk customer manhandling her. Both of them notice this but neither says anything about it. And then she rips his hands off her body and they do it again, and again, until they’re too tired and sore to continue.


	3. One Last Night

Amy leaves the precinct for the last time before her assignment. Her heart sits heavy in her chest as she walks down the steps to the subway. She’s going to miss that place, those people. It feels impossible that she’ll be away from them for three whole months, maybe more.

When she arrives home, her apartment’s front door is cracked open. _Shit_ , she thinks. _Burglars?_ Hand on her badge, she leans toward the door, prepared to burst in and catch the creeps, but then she hears Jake’s voice from inside: “Shhh, everyone hide!”

She opens the door and the whole front room has been transformed. There are candles, pink and purple streamers, and even a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. A shining silver stripper pole has been erected in her kitchen. “SURPRISE!” Jake shouts. Rosa, Gina and Holt, all seated on her couch and very much not hiding, add, “Surprise,” each in their own time.

Jake sidles over to her and claps her on the back. “Do you like it?” He gestures broadly around the room. “It’s like a strip club! Get it?” From this decor job, Amy suspects that Jake has never been to an actual strip club before. But, then again, neither has she, so she could be wrong.

He ushers her into the living room area and sits her down. There’s a stack of wrapped presents on her coffee table. “Going-away gifts from all of us,” Jake explains. Amy thinks she might cry. Tonight was shaping up to be massively melancholy – she was planning on drinking away her lingering regrets and fears with a bottle of shiraz while watching _Seinfeld_ reruns – but now she gets to spend it with exactly the people she’s going to miss most when she’s away.

Over the next two hours, they work their way through a couple cases of beer (except Holt, who’s designated driver and who Amy thinks might actually implode if he ever got drunk) and the pile of gifts.

Gina gives her a creepy disembodied mannequin head to keep her wig on when she’s not wearing it, a Swarovski-encrusted iPhone case (“All strippers have one of these, trust me”), and a CD of herself yelling helpful affirmations (“Dance! _Dance_!”) incase Amy needs some extra motivation.

Rosa gives her a bottle of rum (“You’ll need that after dealing with assholes at the club all night every night”) and a worn-in black leather jacket from her own collection. Later that night, when Holt’s not looking, she slips Amy a set of brass knuckles. “These are illegal, but you might need them,” she whispers conspiratorially.

Holt gives her a miniature laptop from which she’s supposed to check her secret new email account at least once a day and report back to him. Since he’s Holt, this gift is entirely impersonal and without personality – except that he’s set the desktop background to a Georgia O’Keeffe painting. “I recall that you studied art history in university,” he says by way of explanation, and Amy jumps up to hug him but then gets embarrassed and morphs the hug into a handshake. She can’t keep herself from grinning.

Jake gives her a hot pink sequinned bikini (“You’ll look so hot stripping down to this on stage,” he says before she punches his arm hard enough to bruise), a nice notebook and pen (“So you won’t go insane from lack of obsessive list-making”), and, in a rare show of genuine sentimentality, a framed copy of a strip of pictures they took in a photobooth together at last year’s Christmas party. In the pictures, Jake’s wearing a Santa hat, Amy’s blushing from all the rum-and-eggnogs she had that night, and they’re alternately grinning and scowling at each other. “Oh, it’s perfect,” she says, and hugs it to her chest. “Thank you so much. Everyone. For all of this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, as Amy’s stumbling out of the bathroom to get back to the party, she passes through her bedroom and does a double-take. Jake’s sitting on her bed.

“Hey, drunky,” he says to her. “A few too many beers, huh?” He pats the bed next to him, and because she’s equal parts tipsy and tired, she sinks into the spot he’s indicated.

“Hi, Jake,” she says, slurring a little, looking up at him. He’s awfully close. His hip is touching hers. He puts an arm around her. Is this romantic, or more of a brotherly-sisterly thing?

“I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” he says, and squeezes. Probably not romantic, Amy thinks. She’s just had too much to drink.

“I’m gonna miss you too,” she echoes as she relaxes her head onto his shoulder. They stay like that for a few moments, both looking ahead at Amy’s dresser as if there were anything interesting to see there. Then Amy remembers that there _is_. “Hey, d’you wanna see my stripper clothes?” she asks, jumping up excitedly.

Jake chuckles. “Wow, you really _are_ drunk. Okay, sure.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “I didn’t mean you could see them _on me_. You will never have the privilege of seeing me in pasties and booty shorts, Peralta.” She starts digging through the bags of clothing piled up next to her dresser. “I just wanted to show someone my new stuff. It’s so cute!”

On the bed, she lays out all the stuff she bought on her FBI-sponsored shopping trip with Gina earlier in the week. Roller derby kneesocks. Lacy panties. Pleated schoolgirl miniskirts. Cropped T-shirts with deep V fronts. A fishnet body stocking. Two pairs of sky-high patent leather heels. Gold and silver lamé tear-away pants. And of course, pasties and booty shorts.

Jake whistles softly. “It’s lucky I’m sitting down right now, or you would know _exactly_ how much I like this stuff,” he mumbles, crossing his legs.

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re going to look fantastic in these getups, Santiago.”

She beams at him. “Thanks!” And then she blushes hard, shoves the sparkly garments back into their bags, and announces she needs another beer.

 


	4. Journey to the South Pole

Although Amy wakes up with a pounding hangover, she still has enough brainpower left over to go through her pre-mission mental checklist.

 _Call family and let them know where I am._ Check. She phoned them two days ago to tell them she was doing a temporary work stint in upstate New York. That’s also the official explanation for her extended absence from the precinct, among her friends (okay, just Kylie) and her colleagues who aren’t in on the plan.

 _Pack suitcase._ Check. She’s taking a pretty minimal assortment of things. Clothes (including her stripper wig), toiletries, makeup, a few favorite books, the department-mandated laptop the captain gave her, her cellphone (dutifully decked out in the case from Gina), all the other gifts from her party, and (maybe) (secretly) her childhood teddy bear. She figures she might want a little comfort on this investigation.

 _Find apartment._ Check. She’s not allowed to stay in her own place because she’s not technically supposed to be Amy Santiago for the next three months. The FBI is footing the bill, so she’s arranged to rent an adorable, furnished one-bedroom sublet in a three-floor walk-up close to the strip club. She’s particularly excited about the fully loaded kitchen and blissfully cozy floral-patterned arm chair.

 _Choose stripper name._ Check. She’s decided to go by Venus at the club. All these years later and she’s still just as much of an art history nerd as she was in college. She likes the associations the name invokes for her: femininity, fertility, long flowing Botticelli hair.

 _Schedule audition._ Check. That’s today. The South Pole’s owner, Jim, is expecting her at 11AM. She’s so nervous she thinks she might puke. Or maybe that’s just the hangover.

After looking around her little apartment one last time, she takes a deep breath, shuts the door behind her, and wheels her suitcase off toward the subway.

 

 

* * *

 

The South Pole strip club isn’t _quite_ as dingy and gross as she was expecting, but then, it’s still daytime and the place is practically empty. There are three guys slouched over the bar, nursing beers. When Amy walks in, one of the men gets up, strides over to her and shakes her hand. “You must be Venus,” he says, showing off a toothy, slightly yellow grin. “Jim. This is my place.” He gestures grandly around the room as if it were a palace, which it definitely is not.

“Good to meet you, Jim,” Amy says stiffly. Her scalp is itchy under the ridiculous wig, but she can’t take it off. _Venus_ , after all, is a blonde.

“So, auditions are pretty informal here,” he continues, walking up toward the stage at the front of the room. Amy follows, cringing slightly under the appraising stares of the two men still sitting at the bar. “Just tell Mickey what song you wanna dance to – Mickey’s our DJ over there – and he’ll put it on and you can show us some moves.” He offers his hand to her, to help her climb the three steps up to the stage, but she ignores his hand and ascends them herself. Jim shrugs and goes off to sit back at the bar again.

Amy squints over at the DJ booth, hard to see with the stage lights shining in her eyes. “Um, Mickey?” she says. A curly-haired guy with headphones around his neck nods at her. “Do you have, uh, ‘Twork It Out’ by Usher?” Mickey chuckles softly and starts scrolling through his iPod. The song was a recommendation from Gina – of course it was; Amy doesn’t listen to stuff like that – but she ended up falling in love with it a little: the steady beat, the sexy crooning, even the creepy moaning ladies in the background of the chorus.

The song starts, and Amy immediately goes into her now-familiar Stripper Mode. _Dance, DANCE,_ Gina’s voice echoes in her head, and she does.

At the start of the number, Amy’s wearing a trench coat. While she shimmies and shakes her way around the stage, she casts off the coat, revealing a black silk negligée. Under that is the pink sequinned bikini Jake got her (which she would never admit to him that she likes, but she does – _damn_ ). She peels off each piece of clothing in turn, tossing it on the stage floor as she does.

A month ago, the idea of public nudity in any form (hell, even just nudity, period) was horrifying to Amy. But her body got stronger and leaner over the course of her practice sessions with Gina, and – though she initially protested – it helped that both Gina and Rosa made her strip in front of them. She resented this to the point of wanting to cry, but she knew they were only trying to help, and it did eventually get easier. She knew she was cured of her inhibitions the day Rosa said to her in a casual post-lesson chat, “You know you’re still naked, right?” and Amy looked down and realized, oh yeah, she was.

“Twork It Out” comes to an end and Amy strikes a final pose. Her chest is heaving up and down a little from the exertion of the dance, but overall she feels pretty good. Powerful. Sexy. It didn’t go terribly, anyway.

There’s a small smattering of applause from the bar, and Jim announces, “Hired! You start tomorrow night.”

After a massive sigh of relief, Amy pulls her discarded clothes back on haphazardly and walks off the stage, grinning like… a really happy stripper.

 

 

* * *

 

_To: Raymond Holt_

_From: Amy xx_

_Subject: I’m in_

_Hello Captain. I’M IN! I start tomorrow. I’ll look out for any shady activity, as we discussed._

_Please thank Gina and Rosa for me for the moves and the confidence. I couldn’t have done it without them._

_Miss you all already!_

_xox A._

 


	5. On the Job

Amy falls into the South Pole way of life more easily and quickly then she would have imagined.

She sleeps late, eats a nice lunch by herself while reading a book or writing in the journal Jake gave her, and then starts the daily process of stripper-ifying herself. She showers, washes and shaves and exfoliates everything, pins up her hair, slips on the wig, chooses some kind of saucy outfit (if you can even call her stripper clothes “outfits”), slathers herself in glitter and perfume, throws on her trench coat and walks the two blocks to the club.

When she gets there – usually around 8 P.M. – she hangs out in the back room with the other dancers for a while. She doesn’t need to change and get ready with the rest of them, because she lives so close, but the backstage bonding time seems to be an important ritual among these girls so she participates as best she can.

Normally there’s a lot of chatter about men (customers as well as boyfriends), makeup, hair, and the latest episode of _Scandal_. This isn’t exactly in Amy’s wheelhouse, but as someone who missed out on the “best friends forever” and “Truth or Dare at sleepovers” and “doing each other’s nails while discussing boys” phenomena during high school, Amy’s happy to join in, even if she’s not entirely in her comfort zone. After all, _none_ of this is in her comfort zone.

“What about you, Venus?” asks one of the girls, Crystal, as she wraps a piece of her long blonde hair around the barrel of a curling iron. (Crystal’s hair, Amy notes with envy, is not a wig.)

“Sorry? What was the question?” Amy asks. She’d been listening to a different conversation that she thought might’ve been about drugs, hoping to discover some illicit in-club activity, but now she’s pretty sure Dominique and Bridget really _were_ talking about powdered sugar and not cocaine.

“Is there a guy you have your eye on?” Crystal asks. She’s currently affixing rhinestones to the outer corners of her eyelids with lash glue.

 _Amy Santiago_ may not be willing to admit yet that she has a crush on Jake Peralta, but Venus is a whole different story. Venus is brave and brazen, sexually confident, a go-getter in every sense. Venus knows what she wants.

“Yeah,” Amy says. “His name is Jake. I used to work with him.” The girls coo and giggle.

“Ever think about asking him out?” Crystal probes.

Amy blushes. Again – Amy Santiago would never dream of asking Jake out. But Venus would dream of it. Venus would even _do_ it.

“Yeah, maybe I will, next time I see him,” Amy says. She and Crystal grin at each other.

Yeah, Amy’s actually kind of enjoying life at the South Pole.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Each stripper is expected to do two or three numbers on the stage every night, and they spend the rest of the time milling around the club, flirting with customers, trying to sell lap dances. Customers sit at the tip rail and throw money onto the stage at the girls who dance up there, but most of the real money is made from private dances.

This is Amy’s least favorite part of the job, but unfortunately it’s how she has to spend most of her time: strutting around the floor in her five-inch platform heels, blatantly hitting on any man who makes eye contact with her, and trying to wrangle cash out of him. And, if she succeeds in extracting the $20 fee from a man, she has to spend the next three to five minutes shaking her ass in his face.

When Amy first started doing lap dances, she’d pretend each of the men was a shadowy, attractive stranger, tuning out the real details of the men trying to grope her and focusing instead on the imaginary beau in her mind. She tried, for a while, to tell herself she didn’t know who that mysterious stranger was. But now, she’s exhausted her capacity to pretend. The man she pictures is Jake. She wishes every customer was Jake. She pictures him so she can get through the night of booty-shaking and tit-grabbing without growing to categorically hate all men.

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Crystal says to her with a shrug when Amy mentions this coping strategy to her. Crystal is wiser than her glitter pumps and pink lipstick let on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One night Amy sees one of the girls take a customer’s hand and lead him to the back room. There’s something about the way that they skulk away together – careful, shifty, yet totally certain of where they’re going – that makes Amy think she should follow. Luckily, she’s between dances, so she can get away unnoticed.

It’s hard to be surreptitious when you’re dressed in silver lamé hotpants and a matching bikini top, but Amy is an expert detective and an experienced sneak, so she manages it.

The door to the back room is open just a crack when she gets there, so she can see a sliver of what’s going on beyond it, and it’s exactly what she expected. “Here you go, honey,” the man says, handing the girl a wad of cash. The girl undoes the side ties of her bikini bottoms while the guy undoes his fly, and… Well, Amy doesn’t think she can keep watching without actually vomiting, but there’s definitely sex stuff going on. She takes out her iPhone, quietly trains it on the fornicating pair, and takes a video to send to Holt later.

“Hey, beautiful,” says a voice behind her. A familiar voice. A disgusting, revolting, familiar voice.

She knows before she even turns around: it’s the fucking _Vulture_.

She only gets the briefest glimpse of his face before somehow, blessedly, she has the presence of mind to get the hell away from him. _Clack clack clack_ go her heels on the floor as she speeds away, hoping the manager doesn’t see her; they’re not supposed to rebuff any customer, even the most repulsive ones.

“Hey! Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he calls after her. _Yes,_ she thinks. _You’ve stolen dozens of my biggest cases, you asshole._ “Wait! I wanted to buy a lap dance from you, sweetheart!”

Panting from the exertion of speed-walking in heels, she arrives in the dressing room. Crystal is touching up her lipstick.

“There’s a guy from the NYPD here!” Amy says. Crystal is the closest thing she has to a friend at the South Pole, and she has to tell _someone_ , even if she can’t fully explain to Crystal why she’s so freaked out, why she hates the Vulture so much, why it’s such a very very good thing that he didn’t get a close look at her face.

“Whaaaaat?!” Crystal cries. “Shit, I hope he doesn’t figure out about the back room. That would get this place shut down.”

Amy glances down at her iPhone, notices it’s still recording, and screws up what little courage she still has left after that terrifying Vulture run-in. “Why, what’s in the back room?” she asks as casually as she can. She points the phone’s camera at Crystal, who’s still wrapped up in her meticulous lipstick application.

“Oh, the boss lets some of the girls take customers back there for sex,” Crystal says, pouting at herself in the mirror, “if they pay enough.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I hear he takes a commission, though, so if you do it, you should charge more than you actually need.”

She finishes with her lips, mashes them together, and tucks the lipstick into her bra. Then she gets up to go back to the dance floor.

Amy’s about to shut off the video recording on her phone when Crystal suddenly pauses and adds, “I think they sell some coke back there, too.” Then she struts out of the room.

Heart pounding, Amy hits the “stop” button on her phone. _Jackpot._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Raymond Holt_

_From: Amy xx_

_Subject: You were right_

_Hi, sir. I found some evidence of what I’m here to look for. (See attached video.)_

_What do you want me to do next?_

 


	6. A Familiar Customer

Another monotonous night at the South Pole. Another dozen dances. Another crop of drunken, gropey customers.

Amy’s so used to picturing Jake while giving lap-dances that for a moment, she doesn’t even realize the _real_ Jake is striding right up to her.

“Hey, can I buy a dance?” he says, soft and low, and she nods, still on auto-pilot, then does a double take.

“ _Jake?_ ” she says. If she were a cartoon character, her jaw would be on the floor.

“Uh, no,” he says, glancing around nervously and clearing his throat. “My name’s Joe Morris, remember? I’m a high-powered banker by day, frequent strip club customer by night. What’s your name, mademoiselle?” He winks at her.

She’s so relieved, so utterly overjoyed to see him, that she wants to wrap her arms around him and cry and squeeze until neither of them can breathe properly.

But that’s what _Amy_ would do. Venus has other duties to attend to.

“I’m Venus,” she manages to say, and grabs him by his tie in what she hopes is a sexy way. She leads him over to the seating area and pushes him into a chair. He presses some money into her hand and she wants to say, _For you, no charge,_ but that would seem suspicious to anyone who might be watching them, so she takes it and tucks it into her bra.

As she dances, Amy leans in close – something she normally avoids doing while she does this, because most of her customers smell like cheap beer and bad cologne. Jake smells like the leather of the jacket he’s wearing and some kind of fruity shampoo. Amy inhales deeply, moving her body dangerously close to his. His eyes flit from her eyes to her lips and back again, and maybe to her boobs once or twice, but mostly he’s a gentleman.

“Some of the dancers have sex for money in the back room,” she whispers to him, lips grazing his ear, glittery breasts edging toward his face. “One of the girls told me someone sells coke back there, too.”

She figures Holt must have sent Jake to speed up the evidence-gathering process, since the video she sent last week was the best thing she’s come up with so far and even it wasn’t that great – just hearsay. She’s a little hurt that the captain thought she needed back-up, but, well, she does.

Jake puts his hands on her swirling hips – _oh_ – and whispers, “Did you get any evidence?”

“Customers aren’t supposed to touch the dancers,” she scolds him. “And not really, just a video. It’s hard to see what’s happening in it.” Strange that he didn’t already know that. He takes his hands off her and sits back, forcing her to gyrate even closer.

“Let’s go back there and check it out,” he whispers, breath hot against her neck.

She nods, stops dancing, and looks around to see if anyone’s watching. Then she grabs his tie again and starts to lead the way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The back room of the South Pole doesn’t quite look like a brothel – there are no beds, for instance – but that’s the kind of atmosphere it has. Couches and chairs are scattered around the dingy room, and on many of them are greasy johns and glittery dancers, getting it on.

Amy holds her head high and tries to act like she belongs here, like she’s brought guys here dozens of times before. It works. No one even looks at her and Jake as they walk in, let alone questions their right to be there.

She picks a wide armchair near the middle of the room, pushes Jake into it, and climbs on top of him. Then she surreptitiously hands him her iPhone. “Get some video,” she whispers. He nods and opens up the camera app, holding the phone so it’s mostly concealed by his hand.

The men and women around them are pretty absorbed in their various “activities,” but Amy still feels awkward just sitting there when there’s so much movement going on around them. They need to blend in.

Taking care not to obstruct the phone’s camera as Jake slowly pans it around the room, Amy leans in and kisses him.

 _Fuck_. He tastes like candy and coffee. She melts against him. He is all the comfort and certainty and familiarity she’s been so desperately missing these past few weeks at the South Pole. His hand comes around and settles on the small of her back, pulling her closer, and she feels heat welling up inside her. _Fuck,_ she thinks again. It’s the only word in her head. That and _Jake._

She stops caring whether he’s getting any decent video footage, or at least, she trusts he’s a good enough cop that he can hold an iPhone steady. She loosens his tie, unbuttons his shirt halfway. Everyone else in the room is way more naked than Jake is, anyway.

“Amy,” he moans against her mouth, and she shushes him. “Uh, Venus,” he amends softly. In truth, it’s the first time Amy’s heard her real name in weeks. She had almost forgotten how it sounded in Jake’s mouth. Now she remembers again and she wishes he could say it some more. _Amy. Amy._

She breaks the kiss and leans back, perched precariously on his lap and suddenly feeling ridiculous in her skivvies while he’s in his jeans and flannel and leather. He’s looking at her with his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes wide. _Yeah. That just happened,_ Amy thinks, reflexively flicking her tongue over her top lip as if straining for one more hit of Jake. She wraps her arms around his neck and settles her face against his chest, almost like they were a real couple, cuddling in bed – except they’re not a real couple, and this definitely isn’t anyone’s cozy bed.

Time goes by; Amy doesn’t know how long. The iPhone in Jake’s hand captures multiple instances of money changing hands in exchange for sex, all around them. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a muscly, wifebeater-sporting guy on a nearby couch barks, “Put that phone away! This ain’t a place to take pictures.”

Jake immediately slips the phone into his jacket pocket – though not deeply enough to cover the camera lens, Amy notices. He puts on his macho-dumb-guy voice (oh, how many times Amy’s endured – and secretly enjoyed – that voice during undercover work over the years) and replies, “Relax, pal. Was just trying to get some pics of this for later. Keep it in the ol’ spank bank.” He tweaks Amy’s nipple and she has to turn her head away from the wifebeater guy so he won’t see how much she’s giggling.

The guy’s still watching them suspiciously, so Jake plants his broad hands on Amy’s waist and pulls her toward him again. His lips are plush and soft against hers, shifting and searching with gentle pressure. This time, she can really relax into the kiss; Jake’s antics always calm her down, even, apparently, in high-stress situations like this one. His hand comes up to rest on the side of her face and it’s a moment of such tenderness after so many weeks of objectification and catcalls that Amy thinks she might cry from happiness. But she doesn’t. She can’t.

By the time they split apart again, the man in the wifebeater has gone back to humping the sparkly blonde in his lap. It’s not a pretty sight, but it at least means Jake and Amy can quit putting on a show.

Glancing over Jake’s shoulder, Amy sees the club owner, Jim, standing in the back corner of the room, rifling through the pockets of his jeans. Going on instinct, Amy silently slides the iPhone out of Jake’s jacket pocket, trains it on Jim, and zooms in.

Sure enough, what Jim produces from his pocket is a baggie of white powder. He gives it to a nearby club customer, who slips him some cash. The video is shaky and dim, and the powder in the bag could be baking soda for all they know, but at least the video is something.

Amy shuts off the iPhone and leans toward Jake, who’s been idly running his hands up and down her sides. “I think I just got footage of a coke deal,” she tells him softly.

He grins up at her with that goofy, childlike grin of his. “Nice.”

They wait a few more minutes, kissing intermittently – just so as not to arouse suspicion, of course – and then eventually decide that everyone around them is too distracted to notice if they leave. So they do.

Amy walks Jake to the door of the club. Bouncers and dancers are everywhere; they can’t exchange any meaningful words. Amy just says, “Thanks,” and Jake smiles, nods, waves, and goes.

She watches the back of his leather jacket as he walks away from her, and sighs. She has to go back to being Venus now and she’s never felt so empty in her life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Amy xx_

_From: Raymond Holt_

_Subject: Next steps_

_There will be a package delivered to your apartment in the next few days which will contain an earpiece and a wireless transmitter (I am told that a traditional wire would be visible in typical exotic dancer attire). Wear the wire and get a recording of the club owner admitting to his misdeeds. The video you sent this week is excellent but a confession would be better._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Raymond Holt_

_From: Amy xx_

_Subject: RE: Next steps_

_Wouldn’t it be easier to have Peralta drop by and slip me the surveillance equipment, sir?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Amy xx_

_From: Raymond Holt_

_Subject: RE: RE: Next steps_

_Was that a “joke”? You know you are not to have any contact with police other than myself for the duration of this operation. Peralta will not “drop by” and neither will any other officer. Please check your apartment’s mailbox daily next week for the equipment._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Amy stares at the screen of her laptop, cheap Chinese food abandoned on the table next to it.

She should’ve guessed that Peralta wasn’t authorized to visit her. Why did she assume Holt had sent him? Holt has faith in her. She hadn’t asked for back-up.

Jake didn’t come to help her. At least, that wasn’t his main reason for visiting.

He came because he wanted to see her.

She pushes the plate of chow mein away from her, closes the laptop, and thinks about the way Jake’s hands felt on her hips.

 

 


	7. Evidence

The wire shows up in Amy’s apartment mailbox the following week, disguised in an Amazon.com box. She reads through the instructions even though she took a booster seminar on wireless surveillance last year and already knows this particular model inside and out. The unit fits well in her ear and is small enough that her wig conceals it if she pins it just right. She starts wearing it to work every night, just incase.

Jim, the club owner, is hard to get alone. He’s always stalking around the club, breaking up drunken fights, chastising girls for not being flirty enough, and shooting the breeze with the DJ. One night, though, an opportunity presents itself while she’s waiting for Dominique to finish her stage dance.

“Oh, here he comes,” Amy mumbles.

“You can do this, Santiago,” says Holt’s voice in her ear. She nods. She knows she can. But it helps that Holt thinks so too.

“You’re up next, Venus,” Jim says, striding up to her. “‘Let’s Get It On’ is all queued up for you, as requested.” He makes finger-guns at her and gives her a grotesque wink. She tries to smile in response.

“Hey, Jim, while you’re here, I have a question,” she says, batting her eyelashes slightly. (This is one of the few Venus-y skills she plans on taking back with her when she returns to life as Amy Santiago. Being able to manipulate men is useful.)

“Sure, princess. Shoot.”

“It’s about” – she leans in and drops her voice – “the back room.”

He raises his eyebrows and nods wisely. “Ah, so the other girls’ve told you. Good.” His breath smells like vodka but Amy fights her instinct to move away from him; she needs to be close so the wire will pick him up over the pounding sound system.

“What kind of commission do you take?” she asks, trying to sound breezy, like this is no big deal.

He flashes his yellowy grin at her. “Twenty percent or so. Just a little fee for providing the space for you girls to do your fine work. You can drop it by at the end of your shift, beautiful.”

“Push him,” Holt’s voice says low in her ear. “We need him to say it.”

“And just to be clear,” Amy says, lifting her chest so her cleavage will hopefully distract Jim and he won’t notice what she’s doing, “we are talking about _prostitution_ , right?”

Jim laughs, eyes glued to her tits. Yep. She’s got him. “I guess that’s the technical name for it, yeah. I just like to think of it as providing an important public service.” He wiggles his eyebrows smarmily at her. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Oh, and if you need any snow, for you or your customers, you just let me know. I find it helps loosen men’s wallets sometimes, so I sell a little in the back.”

Dominique’s song fades out and Jim gives Amy a gentle push. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

Amy’s not good at reading Holt’s mood without the benefit of seeing his facial cues, limited though they may be – but even she can tell from his voice in her ear that he’s excited. “That’s it. We have it. We have what we need. Good work, Santiago!” Yes, that was a definite exclamation point. In Holt’s voice. After her name. It takes enormous self-restraint for her not to launch into a victory dance.

Luckily, now she gets to do a stripper dance instead. Which is practically the same thing, really.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Let’s Get It On” has become a Venus specialty in the time Amy’s been working at the South Pole. It was one of the few “sexy” songs she brought with her to her dance lessons with Gina, which feel like they took place eons ago. Gina’d made fun of her old-school taste (“Don’t you know all the best booty-shaking music came out in the early 2000s? What is this 1970s drivel, grampa?!”) but Amy had insisted on dancing to it anyway. It makes her feel like a total vixen.

Tonight is no exception. In fact, she’s pretty sure this is the sexiest she’s ever felt as Venus.

She keeps her slutty-sailor costume on throughout the first verse, but as the song melts into the chorus, she begins to untie the little suit’s halter neck. And that’s when she notices Jake sitting in the front row, eyes on her.

He’s not supposed to be here (again). She doesn’t need his help (again). But somehow it’s perfectly right that he’s here. She fixes her gaze on him as she shimmies out of the sailor suit. It drops to the floor and she kicks it at him playfully. He catches it and grins at her.

Now dressed only in shimmery blue panties and a matching bra (plus the heels that have been practically glued to her feet during this whole op), she gets on her knees and crawls over to Jake, slowly. Around them, men are catcalling her, yelling lewd things, hooting and hollering. A few throw dollar bills onto the stage, which Amy ignores. Her eyes are locked on Jake.

When she reaches him, she takes his hand and guides it to the back of her bra. Catching on, he undoes the hook there, and with more confidence than Amy Santiago has ever felt in her whole life before this moment, she peels off the bra and twirls it around in the air.

Jake’s eyes travel all over her and she’s blissfully aware of not only how gorgeous she looks but also how smart, strong and capable she is; how well she’s done in getting the evidence they need. In this moment, she is a perfect synthesis of all the best qualities of both Amy and Venus. And it feels _good_.

She gets up and struts upstage, flirtatiously showing the whole club her ass. She wriggles her panties down her hips and steps out of them gracefully, kicking them aside.

Turning around, now fully naked in front of a room of rowdy strangers, Jake is the only one she really sees. His face is flushed and he looks like he’s trying to be a gentleman by keeping his eyes on hers, but right now she _wants_ him to look at her body. She spreads her arms wide in a big-finish gesture as “Let’s Get It On” draws to a close, and just before the lights fade out, she winks at him.

Everything is coming up Venus.

 


	8. Back Home

The hardest thing about the South Pole raid is seeing Crystal get dragged out in handcuffs, yelling that she’s innocent. But Amy suspects that Crystal actually _is_ innocent – she never saw Crystal in the back room in all her many recon visits there over the past few weeks – so she doesn’t allow herself to feel too guilty.

Maybe they’ll even get back in touch eventually, and stay friends.

Well, probably not. But it’s a nice thought.

* * *

In the weeks after her undercover op comes to a close, Amy’s required to attend a few ceremonies and parties commemorating her success.

At each event, inevitably, some jerk ends up making a rude comment about what Amy had to do to earn the medal of honor that now sits around her neck. She can’t even count the number of dudebro detectives who’ve “jokingly” asked her for a lap dance since she went back to being Amy Santiago.

Fortunately, this type of uncomfortable interaction always gets shut down by Holt, who tells the oversexed assholes, “This woman is braver than you will ever be, and deserves more respect than you will ever earn.”

That tends to shut them up pretty quick.

* * *

On her fifth day back at the precinct, Amy realizes she hasn’t had a moment alone with Jake since she’s been back. Everyone is always swarming around her, congratulating her, or else asking her endless questions about what she went through – and Jake’s been there all the time, standing back, smiling at her, letting her do her thing. Being patient.

But she knows he wants to get her alone. He keeps watching her when he thinks she won’t notice. One skill Amy picked up as a stripper: she’s now very, very aware of when a man is looking at her.

It’s Friday and she knows she’s still in Holt’s good graces, so she’s fairly confident she can get away with what she wants to do. She knocks on the doorframe of Holt’s office, and he looks up.

“Sir, I’m feeling pretty tired. I was wondering if you’d mind if I took the afternoon off.”

The captain almost smiles. “Certainly, Santiago. You have earned your rest. I am surprised you didn’t ask me sooner.”

Biting her lip, unsure whether to push her luck, Amy looks over her shoulder at Jake’s desk. He’s facing away from her but she can tell he’s listening.

“I’d also like to request that Peralta get the afternoon off. So he can help me move my things back into my apartment.”

Without hesitation, Holt says, “Very well. That will be fine. Detectives Diaz and Boyle can hold down the fort here.”

“Excellent. Thank you, sir,” Amy says, and returns to her desk to gather up her purse and coat. She doesn’t even need to update Jake on the situation; he’s already pulling his jacket on and shutting down his computer.

* * *

They drive in silence, ending up at the apartment where “Venus” lived for the past few months. It looks much the same as when she first moved in – Amy Santiago is nothing if not a neat, responsible tenant – save for the boxes of stripper clothes stacked in the living room, waiting to be taken back to Amy’s apartment. Or thrown away. Or possibly burned. She’s not sure yet.

As soon as they’re in the door, Jake starts toward the boxes, calling over his shoulder, “So do you just want me to put these in the car, or – “ but he never gets to finish that sentence because Amy pushes him down onto the couch, climbs on top of him and kisses him, hard. She grabs his wrists and forces them over his head, pinning him against the floral upholstery, and he moans against her mouth.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says when the kiss breaks, gasping for air. “What was that for?”

Amy grins at him, nuzzles her nose against his, nibbles his lip. “I missed you.”

He chuckles. “I can see that.” Experimentally, he tries to wriggle free of her grasp, but she holds his wrists steady. “I like this new, sexually confident Amy Santiago,” he growls. “What’s next; you gonna strip for me again?”

Amy knows this is a joke, but she seriously considers it for a moment. Honestly, though, she’s pretty tired of stripping. Sure, Jake isn’t one of those drunk, gropey guys at the South Pole, but she thinks she might’ve reached her lifetime quota on performative clothing removal. So she climbs off Jake, sits back on her heels, and says, “Why don’t _you_ strip for _me_?”

She expected him to balk at this, to argue with her, at least a little, but he doesn’t. He stands up in front of her, sheds his leather jacket onto the sofa, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Really?” Amy says. “You’re just going to do it? You’re not going to complain about it or make me do it first or anything?”

He shrugs, and drops his button-up to the floor. “I’ve seen you naked a bunch now, and I wasn’t even supposed to. Seems fair.” He kicks off his shoes and peels his undershirt off over his head, revealing his chest and stomach, muscled and strong but still a little soft. Amy bites her lip. “Don’t expect me to look anywhere near as good as you did on that stage, though,” he tells her, and she smiles.

When he gets down to just his boxers, he hesitates, thumbs on the waistband. The living room is bright, curtains thrown wide, and Amy can see every detail of his skin: dimples, hair, the scar she knows he got in an Iannucci knife fight. Jake might come off as the cockiest douchebag in the precinct sometimes, but now, standing in front of her about to expose everything, he’s hesitant. Uncertain.

Amy knows this feeling. She knows how hard it is. So she stands up, takes his hand, and leads him into the darkened bedroom. Better that they both feel comfortable, after all those months of discomfort, of fear, of vulnerability.

It’s dim, but there’s still enough light in the room that Jake can see what Amy’s got on underneath her pantsuit, when they get to that point.

“I thought you hated this!” he says, running his fingers over the pink sequins just over Amy’s nipple. She shivers. “You punched me when I gave it to you!”

She grins, pushes him onto his back, and climbs on top of him. “I guess people change,” she says, and shuts him up with her kiss.


End file.
